


and cool their tea with sighs

by palmcitrus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms, First Kiss, Getting Together, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Martin is bad at letting people take care of him, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, Sharing a Bed, tea is a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmcitrus/pseuds/palmcitrus
Summary: And it’s not like Joncaresor anything, but it does bother him, to see all of Martin’s warmth replaced with paranoia. It’s off-putting to see someone usually so alive now be so shrunken in on himself.He doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that Martin hasn’t stopped bringing him tea.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 74
Kudos: 758





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More and more as they get to know each other, Jon finds himself wanting to take care of Martin. This is somewhat outside of Martin’s norm.

Jon may be a shitty boss sometimes—even he can admit that—but he’s not oblivious. Even he can tell when one of his assistants is having a rough time. 

In the days since Martin has escaped Prentiss, he has been quieter than usual. Shaken. Where before he would have offered Jon a smile and “Good luck,” with his tea, now he’s silent, wordlessly handing Jon his mug before slinking back out the door. He doesn’t even make eye contact. And it’s not like Jon _cares_ or anything, but it does bother him, to see all the warmth in his employee replaced with paranoia. It’s off-putting to see someone usually so _alive_ now be so shrunken in on himself. 

Jon sits back in his chair, effectively distracted from his research, and sighs.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Martin isn’t doing fine. Neither would he, if he spent all his time down in the archives—despite what Tim says he does occasionally actually leave work, and if he couldn’t do that for fear of his life, he’d also be feeling a bit of cabin fever. Especially if he’d spent the two weeks before that literally trapped in his house alone by monstrous worms trying to kill him. Usually Jon would feel the urge to roll his eyes and scoff at Martin’s nervous habits, but after all he’s been through all Jon can scrounge up is a strange sense of...concern. He’s not _cruel,_ after all. 

The door creaks open, and Jon perks up. Speak of the devil. 

“Martin,” he says in greeting, peering more closely at his coworker’s face than he normally would. 

Martin doesn’t respond, only offers a small grunt of acknowledgement with his mug. The bags under his eyes are so pronounced. Jon’s eyebrows furrow in sympathy, and he suddenly has the wild urge to offer Martin somewhere more comfortable to stay than the cot in the archive’s back room, although that’s ridiculous, where would he sleep, Jon only has the one bed—

“Thank you,” he blurts out instead, but the door has already swung closed behind Martin on his way out. 

He exhales and slumps down in his chair, then fixes his stare on the steaming mug in front of him. 

He doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that Martin hasn’t stopped bringing him tea.

  


  


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jon hears, before he fully gains consciousness, and then he’s screaming in pain. 

His eyes fly open to see Martin’s face over him, his eyes frantic. His curly dark hair is wilder than usual, and he’s backlit by a flickering overhead fluorescent light, giving him a strange glow. He makes eye contact. 

“Oh, Jon, you’re awake, thank God,” he says, and he does sound relieved, though it’s undercut by the adrenalinic fear in his voice. 

The worms. The wall has burst open, and there was a white cloud of CO2, and the worms—

There’s suddenly another sharp burst of pain in his right shoulder, and he screams out again. He reflexively tries to jerk out of the way, but Martin’s hands tighten on his bicep and other shoulder, holding him down. He’s kneeling firmly but not painfully on his left wrist. 

“Sorry,” Sasha’s voice says again. Jon looks over and sees her, sweating and digging a corkscrew into his shoulder.

“ _Fuck,_ Sasha,” he gasps out, “are you two okay? What—”

“The worms burst through the wall,” Sasha says, with a particularly difficult twist. Jon grits his teeth and whimpers. “A piece of rubble hit you pretty hard and you passed out. Martin dragged you away, but not before a few got you. I held the rest back with the extinguisher.”

“A few of them caught Sasha too but we already got them out,” Martin rushes out. “And we—I was able to pull some of the smaller ones out by hand, but we needed the corkscrew for the bigger ones—we’ve gotten most of them now—”

“How many more?” Jon asks. He can feel the stickiness of blood dripping down his arm, his hand. Martin’s face is flushed. 

Sasha pulls the corkscrew out of his shoulder with a grunt. Jon cries out. “One,” she says, slinging the dead worm away.

Jon breathes through the panic. “Get it.”

“This one is gonna hurt,” she says apologetically, and then turns to Martin. “Can you turn his jaw towards me—?”

Before Jon can think, Martin is grabbing him by the chin, turning the right side of his face towards Sasha and holding him down against the floor. He shifts his position down to trap Jon more securely under his weight. Jon gasps in horror. “Oh, fuck, it’s in my _face?”_

“Don’t worry,” Sasha says, though she looks almost as filled with dread as Jon feels. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ll try to be quick.”

“I’ve got you,” Martin whispers, close to Jon’s ear, and Jon’s eyes fly open again. He stares into Martin’s brown eyes for a moment, looking for— _something_ —but only finding terror and determination, and then the corkscrew is digging into the side of his face and he’s screaming once more. 

Martin’s hands are strong and anchoring, and Jon thinks nonsensically through the pain, _at least he’s looking me in the eyes again,_ and tries his best to bite back a cry.

  


  


After the attack, something shifts between them.

“You don’t _know_ that,” Martin says, his voice growing slightly louder with passion. It’s been a few months, and his color and vigor have returned. Jon is strangely pleased to see it. “Just because there isn’t any proof—”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Jon says, with matching intensity. “We’re broadcasting signals to space all the time, _and_ we’ve got people listening, if there was intelligent life on other planets why wouldn’t they—”

“But that’s the point, what if other planets can’t interpret those signals? Like they just don’t pick up on the same frequencies that we can?”

“Martin, that literally makes no sense, electromagnetic radiation is the same everywhere in the universe—”

“As far as you know!”

“Okay, _now_ you're being ridiculous,” Jon exclaims, throwing his arms up in exasperation. Martin laughs, loud and bright. 

“Whatever. I am putting this discussion on hold,” he says, and holds the break room door open for Jon. “What have you got for lunch?”

“Leftover takeaway,” Jon replies, moving to grab his box from the fridge. “Chinese, from that new place near my flat. ’S pretty good, actually.”

Martin hums. “Sounds nice.”

Jon hums back and sits. “What about you?”

“Shepherd’s pie. Turned out fairly good.”

“Did you make it?” Jon says curiously, leaning over to peek into his container. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

Martin chuckles from the counter. “Well, I’m thirty years old, Jon. Gotta learn at some point. Plus, my mum’s a crazy picky eater, so I constantly have to switch it up or she’ll be cross with me.”

Jon looks up. Martin is still rummaging around with his back to him.

“You, er, haven’t talked much about your mum,” he notes, and hopes it doesn’t make Martin cagey.

His shoulders do tense, but only for a moment. When he turns around, his face looks more weary. He sighs. “Yeah. She’s...not doing great.” 

Jon pauses, not sure how far he’s allowed to push. “What’s it like, dealing with all that? I-if you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“No, it’s–it’s fine,” Martin says, waving his hand. “Just kind of depressing.”

“I don’t mind,” Jon says.

Martin sighs again. “Well, she’s been bedridden for years, now. Which I don’t blame her for, obviously, but...she can just be so _difficult_ sometimes. Like, the other day I brought her her dinner, and she looked at it and all she said was ‘What do you call this? I don’t want your shit,’ and then just told me to stop bothering her.”

Jon’s jaw drops a little. “Martin, that’s awful.” He tries not to think about how horribly he himself used to treat Martin. He fails, and shame tightens his shoulders.

Martin shrugs. “I suppose, but someone’s got to take care of her, right? She’s still got to eat.”

“Is she always like that?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“W–she never, th-thanks you? Nothing?”

“Jon, I don’t do it for the thanks,” he explains, looking like he’s made his peace with this objectively horrible situation. “I know–I mean, it’s understandable, I guess. I can see how someone in her situation has a lot of built-up resentment towards life. I–I don’t think it has anything to do with me, specifically. I just happen to be there, so I’m who she takes it out on. It’s not like she hates me. It’s fine, I promise.”

Jon opens his mouth to protest that that’s certainly _not_ fine, that’s tragic, to always do so much and get so little back, but then Martin walks over, sits down next to him, and places a cup of tea in front of him. 

Jon blinks at it. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, and takes a sip. It’s jasmine with honey, which Jon loves even though he pretends to not like herbals, and it tastes exactly right. 

“Of course,” Martin says, and digs into his food.

 _Of course,_ Jon mulls over as they eat together, quieted down. Like it was obvious he was going to take care of him. Like it couldn’t go any other way.

Huh.

  


  


Jon wakes up from a coma, and his first thought is, _I’m thirsty._

Martin is not there to greet him. 

He makes his way back to the Institute, still feeling disoriented and shaken after being trapped in a hellish dreamscape for six months, and thinks about how things have changed. He tries desperately to convince himself that he hasn't traded away his humanity in exchange for his life. That he hasn’t made a terrible mistake.

He wants something warm.

He is not greeted with warmth.

A few hours later, after processing his encounters with a furious Melanie and a cold and distant Basira, Jon settles in at his desk, looks over the differently-organized statements, and lets himself ache.

He thinks about how he’s feeling now, and it reminds him of the paranoid, tired, helpless-feeling version of Martin that had haunted the archives after the Prentiss ordeal. He hopes–he hopes–

He hopes Martin is doing better than that now, even if he won’t talk to Jon. He hopes he’s taking care of himself. He wishes he was the one taking care of him. 

He remembers Martin’s hand brushing his, and he remembers: for all that Jon’s tea had been accompanied by someone quieted and exhausted by fear, the tea itself had never been anything less than perfect. 

Jon doesn’t drink tea for months. 

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for the Martin POV...enjoy

Four days into their stay at Daisy’s safehouse, Jon walks into the living room holding two mugs and says, far too nonchalantly, “I made some tea.”

Martin glances up in surprise and takes a second to place the fake-casualness in his voice, then immediately wants to kick himself. 

Of course Jon would have wanted tea by now. That’s always been Martin’s job, and while he has been busy shopping and rearranging and taking stock of everything and trying to shake off the wisps of Loneliness that seem to be clinging to him, he’s still scolding himself for not recognizing that _obviously_ Jon would want some sense of normalcy.

“You made me tea?” he says, and it comes out apologetic, which almost makes it come off disappointed, so he clears his throat and says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Jon’s chest puffs out just a little as he hands him his mug. “Thought you might want some.”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him as he takes his first sip, so he tries to disguise the fact that there’s slightly too much sugar for his taste. “It’s lovely, Jon. Thank you.”

Jon hums, still looking at him. He’s giving off some strangely nervous vibes. “You’re welcome, Martin.”

Martin lets himself glance over as Jon turns away and sits on the couch across from him. He watches him crack open a book, and sips his tea again. 

  


  


Jon jolts up in bed with a gasp, and chokes out, “Martin,” and Martin is already waking up and reaching for him. 

“It’s okay,” he says, voice rough, pulling Jon close. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Jon’s fingers curl in the fabric of Martin’s t-shirt. His breathing is wet and labored, and it sounds like he’s half-sobbing. “You—you were alone,” he says. “Peter—I was too late—”

“You weren’t,” Martin says. He rubs his hand up and down Jon’s back. “You weren’t too late. It was a dream. I’m here, I’m okay, I promise. We’re both safe. It’s all right.”

Jon is burying his face into Martin’s chest, but his sobs don’t seem to be slowing down. Martin takes a deep breath in and out. “Breathe with me.”

It takes a few seconds, but Jon’s breathing does eventually slow to match Martin’s, and his fingers loosen their grip on his shirt, instead just resting on Martin’s sides.

“Are you all right?” Martin murmurs, and Jon lifts his head. 

For a long moment, he just looks at Martin, then he nods. “Yeah. ’M all right.”

Martin, swept up in concern and— _something,_ reaches one hand up and tucks a strand of hair behind Jon’s ear. Jon just watches him, and doesn’t say anything.

His hands are gentle on his sides, Martin notices. His thumbs make gentle strokes back and forth. “Want to sleep?”

Jon is quiet for another moment, just staring, and then he says, “Yeah.”

The two of them lie down, Jon not turning away from him. Through the dark Martin can just barely make out Jon still watching him. He absently wonders if the Eye gives him some sort of night vision powers. 

“Martin?” Jon says softly, as if trying not to disturb the silence. 

“Yes?”

Jon worries his lip for a moment, then reaches his arm over Martin’s waist and tucks himself close, his head pressed against his heartbeat. “Thank you.”

Martin inhales, breathing in the scent of Jon’s hair. “Of course,” he says, and holds him. 

  


  


“Here,” Jon says, nudging open the bedroom door with his foot. Martin glances up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed and watches him carry two mugs across the room. 

“Oh,” Martin says, taking the one Jon extends to him. Their hands brush. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Jon shrugs. “What are you reading?”

“A book on birdwatching I found in the drawer,” he replies, and pauses to take a sip. It’s been slightly oversteeped. “Didn’t peg Daisy much for the birdwatching type, but I’m not really sure how much time she actually spent here, anyway.”

When he looks up, Jon is watching him. “Mm,” he hums noncommittally, then looks away and says, “Guess you never know.”

Martin squints at him a little, but drinks the rest.

  


  


It’s Martin’s turn to wake up with a gasp less than a week later, with tears running down his face and his breath coming in short bursts and the phrase _LET ME GO_ loud in his head. 

Jon doesn’t stir. Martin sees his chest continue its slow rise and fall, and reminds himself, _Breathe._

He tries to keep his eyes on Jon’s chest, match his breathing to it, but it’s not working, he can still feel the cold, humid chill of the mist soaking into his skin, and he has to get out of here or he’s going to wake up Jon. 

He slides off the bed and makes it to the toilet, just managing to flick the light on before clutching the sink. His own eyes look terrified in the mirror. 

_LET ME GO LET ME GO LET ME GO,_ his own voice echoes around his brain, and Peter’s calm, amused voice replies, _No, I don’t think I will._

He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. 

_You’re okay now,_ he thinks forcibly. _Jon came for you. He saved you. Peter is dead. He saved you. He saved you._

That almost works. The memory of Jon’s face appearing, desperate and wild, of his arms wrapping around him, slow his breathing, and he focuses on the thought of Jon’s eyes until he’s calmed himself down. 

He splashes his face with cold water and carefully makes his way back to bed. He keeps his eyes on Jon’s sleeping form, his scarred hand resting between them, and he still feels a little bit numb. 

He thinks if he could see Jon’s eyes now, it might help. But he’s not going to wake him up over a stupid nightmare. Jon needs sleep, and Martin needs to get his shit together. 

_He came for you,_ Martin thinks again, but now it’s not a comfort, but an accusation. _Isn’t that enough? Don’t be so difficult, don’t make him regret it._

He bites his lip and inches himself closer to Jon. He doesn’t touch him, but he’s close enough to feel the warmth of his body, and it’s almost enough to thaw him out. 

  


  


Something between them has changed since they’ve been here. 

It’s not just that they share a bed now, or that they seem to have started subconsciously reaching for each other day and night. Those things would have driven him crazy a year ago, but now they only seem to make sense. Or they can at least be excused. Martin needs to help Jon with his nightmares, of course, and—well—maybe Jon’s just a touchy person with his friends, and it’s not like they’re at work anymore. No need to act professional. 

No, the thing that’s new is that Jon is watching him constantly. Not Watching, the Beholding is surprisingly dormant here, but just...looking.

Martin can feel Jon looking at him as he steps out of the bathroom in the morning. He catches Jon staring as he scrubs the dishes clean after dinner with his sleeves rolled up. Curiously, he notices Jon watching him intently every time he takes the first sip of his tea. The expression on his face is always open, and attentive, and thoughtful, and it catches him off-guard every time. He usually turns away before Jon can see how flustered he gets. 

One morning, Martin had opened his eyes and found Jon just gazing at him softly from across the bed, and his breath caught in his throat. He gave a soft, “Hi,” and Jon gave an equally-soft “hi” back, and then they’d smiled at each other, and Martin hadn’t stopped thinking about the brown of his eyes in the morning sun since. 

Before, he’d attributed all the looking to Jon just being on guard for any signs of the Lonely creeping back in, but after that he’s not so sure.

It’s _weird._ After being in the company of the Lonely for so long, with no one but Peter Lukas to exist with, he’s not used to being seen. It feels strange, like he’s being thrust back into a world he’d forgotten about, and doesn’t quite fit right in. 

But it’s not bad. If he didn’t like it, he could still probably access his vanishing powers, if only it wouldn’t make Jon absolutely lose his shit. He’d fret and stress about it for _days,_ and, well—

The truth is, Martin hates the thought of making Jon worry about him. Jon has enough to worry about. Martin refuses to become one more stressful item on his list. He wants to be a grounding force for Jon, something he can lean on, something that’s always there when he needs it. 

I can do that, he thinks. Easy. It’s what I’ve always done. 

  


  


_LET ME GO_

_No._

_LET ME GO_

_No._

_PLEASE I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE LET ME GO_

_But this is where you belong, Martin. What did anyone ever do for you outside of this place, anyway? What did you ever get back?_

Martin opens his mouth to reply, but his body has gone so numb he finds he can’t move his tongue, and Peter fades, chuckling, into the mist. 

_JON,_ Martin thinks, and tries to make his mouth work. _JON, JON, WHERE ARE YOU, PLEASE—_

It’s not working. He can’t call for him. Jon isn’t coming, Jon isn’t here, he’s all alone—

For the second time in a week, Martin wakes up crying, and he smothers the sound with his hand before he’s even regained consciousness. 

He shoves off the bedcovers and stumbles to the toilet once more, clutching onto the sink, but when he looks into the mirror, it’s empty. His own face doesn’t greet him. All he sees is fog. 

He gasps and jerks away from it, backpedaling out the door, and finds himself in the kitchen. He grabs the counter and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to quiet his sobs, and—

The light flicks on. He whirls. 

“Martin, are you alright?” 

Jon is standing on the other side of the kitchen, looking alarmed. His hair is mussed wildly from sleep and his t-shirt hangs off his shoulder. Martin’s heart lurches at the sight of him. He tries to smother the ache.

He blinks rapidly, valiantly trying to force the tears back. He shakes his head again as if that will help. 

“Fine,” he chokes out. Jon steps closer to him. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah—I’m good, I just—”

_Get your shit together, you’re fine—_

“Do you want some tea?”

Jon blinks. That apparently was not what he was expecting. “Uh…”

“We’ve still got Earl Grey. And green. I know you like jasmine but they didn’t have the brand you liked at the store...the shop nearby is really small, sorry.”

Jon’s expression has gone from concerned to confused. “Martin,” he says, watching him furiously wipe his eyes and flutter around the kitchen, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. 

“And we don’t have honey, but there is some sugar—my mistake, I forgot to check for it—next time I’ll—”

_“Martin.”_

Martin stills but doesn’t turn to face him. He sighs, then says, “Yes?”

Jon steps up next to him, unsure, and gently places a hand on his arm. “Talk to me.”

Martin is biting his lip hard. “I’m fine, Jon. Really.”

“You’re clearly not.”

“I am.”

Jon stares hard at him for a second. “Martin, if you came downstairs at 3am and found me crying alone in the kitchen, would you just ignore me and go back to bed just because I said I was fine?”

“I—” Martin swallows, then sighs again. He finally looks at Jon. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Alright,” Jon says gently. “Then stay here.”

Martin steps slightly out of Jon’s way as he grabs a second mug and two Earl Gray teabags. He watches as Jon pulls the sugar down from the cabinet and the half-gallon of milk from the fridge, and makes tea. 

He watches as Jon puts two capfuls of milk in before the hot water, and exactly a spoon and a half of sugar, and blinks in realization. “You know how I like it.”

“Of course,” Jon says. “Well, not of course. I’ve been trying to get it right the past few weeks. I think this should be the right proportions.”

“It is,” Martin says softly, just a little awed. So that explains all the watching. Jon takes Martin’s teabag out after a few minutes, just like he likes, and leaves his own in, just like he likes, and carries them to the couch. Martin trails after him and sits, unsure. 

Martin wants to know why Jon didn’t just Know how Martin likes his Earl Gray, but that’s stupid. He already knows how risky intentionally accessing the Beholding’s powers can be. What he really wants to know is why Jon cares so much about it.

“You’ve been trying to get it right?” he says. 

“Mm-hm,” Jon says, sipping his own but eyeing Martin the whole time. “I think I got it perfect for the first time yesterday.”

“How do you know?”

Jon pauses, then says, “Try this one, then I’ll tell you.”

Martin looks at him for a moment, then brings his tea to his lips and drinks. It’s the right temperature, with the right amount of milk, the right amount of sugar, steeped the right amount of time. It’s exactly right. 

He holds the mug tighter, warming his hands. “It’s perfect, Jon.”

Jon has a tiny, satisfied smile on his face. “I know. You always lick your lips if it’s too sweet. And you scrunch your nose a little if it’s too bitter.”

Martin stares at him. “Why didn’t you just ask me how I take it?”

“Because,” Jon says. “You wouldn’t have told me.”

He furrows his brow. “What? Yes I would’ve.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Jon says. “You would have said, ‘Oh, did you want some tea? I’ll get it,’ and then you would have gone off to the kitchen and made it for both of us instead of letting me, and I never would have learned.”

Martin frowns into his cup. “Well, sorry that I like making you tea, then.”

“It’s not just that. It’s also that you don’t like it when I make you tea.”

“Sure I do,” Martin says automatically, but Jon shakes his head. 

“No you don’t,” he says. “I’ve been watching. You get this weird twist in your face whenever I bring it to you, like—regret? Like you’re upset with yourself for letting me be the nice one?”

Martin’s face is twisting now, though he’s not quite sure what his expression is.

“You can like making me tea without being the only one who ever makes it,” Jon says quietly. “I like doing things for you, too. We can both take care of each other.” 

“It’s not the _same,”_ Martin says, placing his mug down, and nerves ever-so-slightly clench around his heart to finally be alluding to his feelings. “You _know_ why I do what I do. You don’t have to give anything back. I’m not expecting that. You don’t owe me anything.”

 _“Martin,”_ Jon says, not loudly but still fervently, “Do you think I don’t care about you, too?”

Martin opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Jon puts his tea down, then places his hand on the side of his face, his thumb wiping away the old smear of tears from before. Martin can feel the slight bumps of scars on his skin. Scars from when Martin had held him down so long ago, desperate to save him, willing him furiously to be okay. 

He had looked into Jon’s panicked brown eyes beneath him and thought, _I wanna take care of you._

“It’s not the same,” he whispers again, his heart in his throat. 

“It is.”

“No, it’s not, Jon, I—” he breaks off. He doesn’t want to say it again, not now. 

Jon watches him. “I love you,” he says.

Martin’s eyes grow sharp. “You—”

“That’s why you take care of me, right?” he insists. “Well, same here. I love you, too. That’s why I want to take care of you. Just _let me._ You don’t always have to be the one giving.”

Martin stares at him for a long second, and Jon almost looks _nervous,_ but only behind a veneer of conviction, and then Martin kisses him. 

Jon’s hand curls into his hair, accepting him with a small noise, and he’s kissing Martin back. He tastes like tea, Martin notices hysterically, and the thought makes him want to cry.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon murmurs, pulling away softly, and Martin realizes tears are, in fact, leaking down his cheeks again.

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

“No need,” Jon says, and presses kisses under both of Martin’s eyes, the center of his forehead, his soft round cheeks. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

Martin holds onto Jon’s shoulders and exhales. For the first time in a while, it feels like he is really letting something go, something that has been trapped in his lungs for a long, long time—before Peter Lukas got to him, before he even worked at the Institute. “I love you, too,” he says. 

Jon’s face cracks into a smile, a genuine, emotional smile, and Martin’s not sure whether his eyes are actually glistening or if he’s imagining it. “God, Martin.”

Then Jon leans in and catches his mouth again, and they kiss and kiss and kiss until Martin makes a noise and breaks away one more time. 

“When your tea’s too sweet, you squint your eyes,” he says, like it’s urgent that Jon knows. “And when it’s too bitter you sigh after you drink it.”

Jon blinks, then laughs. “You’ve been watching.”

“So have you,” Martin counters, but there’s no defensiveness to it. Only joy. 

“Not my fault,” Jon whispers, leaning in. “I can’t look away.”

They both grin, and for the moment, everything is exactly right.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to chewsdaychillin for helping w this!! Feel free to leave comments and kudos they add years to my life💚💚

**Author's Note:**

> title from Keats’ poem “A Party of Lovers”, because they are in love and we all know how Martin feels about Keats.


End file.
